Seer

by Ashley Maker

  The left side of my face is clammy and cold, a product of scratchy wetness brushing against my cheek. I want to turn from it, rub away the snot and tear residue, but I can’t. Not when Laila is reading across the room and I’m pretending to be asleep. But I’ve been crying the entire time, and I think she knows, and oh please I don’t want her to ask any more questions. Her bed rustles as she sits up, and I hear the thunk of her putting the book on her nightstand. I hold my breath a half second longer than I need to and let it out as slow as I can.

  Inhale and count to five.

  Exhale slow.

  Don’t think. Just breathe.

  After a few seconds, she sighs and makes a little humming sound in her throat. The bed creaks when she stands—my stomach knots. She rustles about the room, moving back and forth across the floor, quieter than I would have expected. A few more footsteps, followed by the click of the bathroom door closing. The knots relax, if only a little bit, and I finally let out the deep breath I’ve been fighting my lungs to contain. It’s a steady gush of air, but it does nothing to relieve the pressure, the whirlwind in my head ripping through memories of the day. Images that run, run, run through my thoughts, flickering like an old movie, flashing gold and black on the backs of my eyelids for the billionth time.

  Whatever that was, it was a fluke. There’s no need to freak out, because it’s not going to happen again. And maybe it never happened at all. Maybe it was a trick of the light, or the result of stress—my eyes just playing tricks on me. Yeah. That must be it. I probably imagined the entire thing, and everything will be fine in the morning.

  The pillow indents under my head after I flip it over to the dry side. I nuzzle against it a few times and position my arm underneath, but it’s not my pillow, and it smells like Lysol. Each new breath brings the scent of unfamiliar detergent, making my stomach churn all over again. Knees tucked tight against my chest, I curl up on the mattress like I’m in my own cocoon. New tears swell and spill. By the time the dark current of oblivion finally draws near to me, my face is as wet as before.

  11

  The world is shaking apart. Faces and words crumble to reverie, and I groan and swat at the offender, not ready for the dream to end. Despite the attempt to get rid of the fingers around my arms, they continue to rattle me into full consciousness. The light overhead glares when I open my eyes, making me squint at the perpetrator standing over the bed.

  “Good morning, roomie!” Laila greets in a sing-song voice.

  A glance at the alarm clock on her desk shows it’s not even six o’clock yet. I groan again and rub at my sleep-bleary eyes. “It’s too early.”

  Laila smirks down at me. “This is sleeping in. Now come on. We have places to be before class starts. Like breakfast.”

  She is way too perky, considering it’s still practically nighttime.

  I let my eyes close for another second or two before dragging myself into a sitting position. The gray comforter pools onto my lap. I blink a few times until my eyes no longer feel like sandpaper, glance around and—

  Okay. Seriously, what is she wearing?

  My chin ducks inward as I take in her…bodysuit? That’s the only word for the long-sleeved concoction of black lycra and leather running from her throat to the rather odd-looking boots that stop mid-way up her calves. There are zippers and strategically placed padding, too, and honestly, the whole thing looks so bizarre. Who wears that?

  Well, Laila apparently.

  She catches me staring and says, “After breakfast, I’ll take you to get fitted for your very own uniform.”

  “Uniform?” I squint at her. “As in, required to wear? That kind of uniform?”

  “Is there another kind of uniform?”

  “No….”

  “Well, that answers your question then, doesn’t it?”

  She has to be kidding. They cannot expect me to wear that. I just…I can’t. There’s no wrapping my head around something so strange this early in the morning. My gaze strays to the double blades above her bed.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

  I look at Laila again and find her smiling at the blades. “Yeah, I guess.” More like scary. “But what exactly are they?”

  “They’re Kamas,” she says with pride, like she’s talking about a cherished pet or a child. “They were originally used for cutting crops in Asia, but they’re also pretty good at taking heads off. I imported that set from Okinawa.”

  Taking off what?

  Laila laughs. “Clare, your expression is priceless. Don’t worry. I don’t have a reason to use them against you.” She heads for the door and swings it open. “Be downstairs in fifteen minutes. Dress warm.”

  If I ever see my father again, I’m going to let him have it for allowing me to go to a place that has bodysuit uniforms and displays weapons in dorm rooms. And they say this is a school.

  But a school for what? Every school I know of has policies against tight clothing and sharp weaponry.

  An image of my weird eye-changing experience flashes in my mind, but I shut the memory down as quickly as it comes. There’s no way. Absolutely no way. I refuse to accept there’s any connection between what happened last night and the weirdness of Laila’s outfit and words.

  Downstairs, I find Laila talking on the phone. She looks up at my approach and mumbles something before ending the call. “That was my brother. He’s going to meet up with us. I thought it’d be good for you to meet some people your age. He can show you around while I’m teaching.”

  I wrap my coat a little tighter around me. “You teach?”

  She smiles. “Of course. I’m the only female assistant instructor here. Defensive Fighting is my specialty.”

  A strangled, stuttering laugh gurgles from my lips. “Did you say Defensive Fighting?”

  Her smile turns patronizing. “Come on, roomie.” She runs a hand over the leather on her hip. “Do you think we wear these for the fun of it?”

  Well, a girl can hope.

  “But why would the students need to learn how to fight?”

  Pity flashes across her features. “You really are just a child, aren’t you?” She makes a disgusted sound in her throat before muttering under her breath, “I so better get paid more for this. This is going to be like babysitting.”

  Clamping my teeth together, I bite back the remark snarling on my tongue. Probably not the greatest idea to insult one’s roommate when they have sharp things stashed all over the room. But still. I’m getting really tired of her referring to me as a child.

  The sunrise has already started to paint a pinkish glow on the horizon when we start our walk across the shoveled and salted path. We’re more than halfway to the cafeteria when a white-haired figure swings into step beside me. I jump and skitter a few steps to the side, head whipping over to see who’s been following us for who knows how long.

  “Hey,” Tarry says, glancing at me sideways with a crooked grin.

  Laila looks up from her phone. “You made it!”

  His eyes remain locked with mine. “Of course. I wanted to be introduced.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Laila smirks and gestures between us. “This is Clare. She’s new. Blah, blah, blah. His name is Tarry. You kids have fun.” She starts to walk away but pauses after taking another look at my face. “I need to make a phone call, but I’ll meet up with you before breakfast is over. Now go. Mingle. Meet people, my little grasshopper.”

  I stare after her as she distances herself on the sidewalk, seemingly enraptured by whatever is on the screen of her phone. A panicked feeling makes me want to chase after her. It’s all I can do to stand still.

  “Did she really just ditch me like that?”

  Tarry grins. “Pretty much. But don’t worry. I’m better company than her. It’s nice to finally meet you, by the way.”

  “Likewise.” I swallow and try to think of something to say as we start walking again. “So what’s it like living here?” Nope, that came out sounding way t
oo pathetic. I lower my voice and try again. “Are we talking boarding school or military strict?”

  “I’d say both.” He shrugs, then winks and adds, “But we still have fun.”

  It makes me laugh. “I can only imagine what a party would be like here.”

  “Hey, you’d be surprised.”

  Our conversation drops off upon arriving at the cafeteria. Tarry holds the door open for me, and I try to ignore the influx of new stares that start the moment we step into the already crowded room. I should be the one staring at them. They’re the ones wearing full-body padded leotards at six o’clock in the morning, after all. It’s like the rules of normalcy have been completely reversed.

  Shoulder brushing against mine every now and then, Tarry steps in close, guiding me through the maze of occupied tables to the end of the breakfast line. I follow his lead in picking up a blue tray, a set of plastic silverware, and a carton of chocolate milk.

  We move down the line.

  Tarry points at the food options we’re fast approaching. “You have to try the breakfast burritos. I usually eat three.”

  “Three?” I eye the rather large tin-foil wrapped packages.

  “Not gonna lie, Clare,” Tarry says in a super serious tone. “The food is the best part of this place. They might grind our faces into the dirt, but hey, they feed us well.”

  My heart stutters. “They do what to our faces?”

  Tarry busts out laughing. “I was kidding! The training can be intense, but they don’t literally shove our faces in dirt or anything.” True to his word, he puts three burritos on his tray, plus a bowl of diced melon and a bottle of Gatorade.

  I take one of each item, minus the sports drink. After showing our trays to the middle-aged woman who rings up the items, Tarry and I weave our way through the cafeteria. Somehow, he finds the only table not completely full of other people. Two guys and a girl sit at one end. At first, I think Tarry is going to go sit with them, since he exchanges a nod with one of the guys, but he keeps going to the empty end.

  The wooden chair scrapes over the floor as I pull it back and slip into the seat. I rearrange the items on my tray. “Are those your friends?”

  He nods. One of his burritos is already unwrapped. I pick at the tin foil on mine. Eating around a lot of people has always made me feel queasy, especially when so many of them are watching.

  “Don’t you want to sit with them?”

  “Naw,” he says. “I’d rather sit with you.”

  I don’t point out that we could both sit with his friends, because I can hear what he’s not saying, that he wants to sit with just me. Like there’s no pressure to that. He doesn’t make me feel like I’m on display though. I like that about him. It makes being around him easy, like we’ve known each other longer than we actually have. I pay a little less attention to the people still staring at me.

  Grabbing a plastic fork, I spear a cantaloupe chunk and almost laugh when I see Tarry is already halfway through his second burrito. Even though I got about a third of the amount of food Tarry did, he finishes eating way before I do.

  “So what’s your story, Clare?” He lowers his voice. “Have you changed yet?”

  I almost choke on the food in my mouth. Why does everyone keep asking me that? “Not yet.”

  “Yeah, me either.” He sounds disappointed. “What about phasing?”

  “No,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Would I know if I had?”

  Tarry cocks his head to the side. The tone of his voice changes slightly. “Yeah, you’d definitely know it.”

  No longer hungry, I put the last of my burrito back on the tray. “What happened when it started for you?”

  Please don’t say anything about your eyes.

  His expression turns thoughtful. “I was sparring with my friend Aaron when I phased for the first time. We were playing around. I was frustrated he had the upper hand, and then it happened.”

  My heartbeats thud harder in my chest. I lean toward him. “What happened?”

  “The switch flipped, I guess. That’s kind of how it felt, like one second I was normal, and then something clicked inside of me. The next thing I knew, Aaron was flying across the mats. We were lucky he didn’t get hurt. If he had, we’d have gotten in a lot of trouble.”

  No eyes so far. Good. “Why’s that? It’s not like you meant to hurt him.”

  He gives me a funny look. “Don’t you already know? Sparring outside of class is against the rules until both fighters have changed.”

  “Oh, well, I guess that makes sense.” Honestly, I’m not sure if it does, but whatever.

  Tarry rubs a hand across his chin and leans toward me. His hair flops into his eyes, and he brushes it away. “My sister didn’t really tell me why you came here. You’ve…” He glances around. When he speaks again, his voice is so low I have to turn my head to catch the words. “What compound are you from?”

  So much for not feeling like I’m on display.

  My stomach coils with the indecision of telling the truth or making something up. I pull at the hem of my shirt. “I’m not.”

  Tarry raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not from one of the compounds. I lived with my mom until she disappeared, and then I moved outside of Denver to live with my dad.” My heart lurches into my throat as I wait for him to say something.

  “Wait, wait.” He leans forward and keeps his voice low. “Are you telling me you got to live in reality?”

  “Aren’t we all living in reality?”

  Tarry smiles. “I guess that answers my question. It’s an expression we use about living in the world outside of the compounds. But seriously, how did you not grow up like the rest of us if you’re here now?”

  I swallow only to have my heart re-lodge itself. “Um, well, I grew up with my mom. She ran away with me when I was a baby and…I guess it’s possible she faked my death to cover everything up. I’m only here now because Mathias invited me, and I wanted away from my dad.”

  Oh great, now he’s staring at me, too. I should never have said anything. I should have made something up.

  Realization flits across his features. “You’re Chris Palmer’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  “I guess?” My voice rises. “I mean, yeah, I am.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t realize that before, with your last name and everything.” His voice fills with awe. “This is unbelievable. Do you think you could introduce me to him?”

  My forehead furrows. “Why in the world would you want to meet Chris?”

  “Your dad is a legend. Did you know he led an assault on the Underground? Nobody does that. At least nobody does that and survives. But your dad did.”

  “He did what?”

  “Who did what?” Laila asks from behind me.

  I startle and place a hand over my heart. “We were talking about my dad.”

  Tarry gestures at me. “Did you know she’s Chris Palmer’s daughter?”

  “Of course I knew. It’s in her file.”

  She read my file? When did she have time—when I was asleep?

  He gives her an irritated look. “I forgot all you staffers get access to everything. You could have filled me in on that one.”

  She grins. “It was more amusing to let you find out for yourself. Honestly though, you’ll have to drool over her parentage later. She needs to get fitted for training.”

  I follow the two of them to the trash receptacles by the front doors. Tarry and I empty our trays and stack them while Laila busies herself with a text message.

  “Sorry about earlier,” Tarry says. “I didn’t mean to get all fan-crazy about your dad. I’ll be sure to keep it in check from now on.”

  “It’s not that big of a deal.”

  Tarry steps closer and smiles. “But it is. The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable.”

  Like right now? Although to be fair, it really isn’t Tarry making me feel uncomfortable. Laila is the one making no secret
of the fact that she’s listening to the conversation. The scrutiny in her gaze makes it difficult for me to smile back at him. Hanging out with Tarry wasn’t bad, but relief still washes over me when Laila and I leave and he stays behind at the cafeteria.

  A long walk and three staircases later, we end up in what looks like a small department store. The entire floor has been decked out in shelves and racks, all filled to the brim with different kinds of clothing and shoes, and bodysuits on the far wall. Laila goes straight to the shoes and begins browsing through them. It only takes her a few seconds to find what she’s looking for.

  “Here,” she says, shoving a pair of black running trainers into my arms. “Try those on. You’re scheduled to go running this afternoon.”

  I breathe in the clean scent of the new shoes, reminded of shopping trips to the outlet mall with Mom. A pleasant sensation bubbles in my chest as I lace the new shoes onto my feet; it’s been forever since I had a good proper run. Sneaking out at midnight to run up and down the driveway didn’t really cut it when I lived with Chris.

  After I stand up and flex the new shoes, I can’t help but grin. “Perfect fit.”

  Laila’s eyes hold a mischievous glint. “I knew they would be. Knowing people’s exact shoe size is a gift I have.” She tosses over a pair of lycra tights and running shorts. “You’re going to want to layer up.”

  I run my palm across the slick black fabric. “You checked my shoes for the size, didn’t you?”

  “I’m telling you it’s a gift.” But she smiles when she points to a rack of windbreakers across the room. “Pick out one of those when you’re done. You’ll also need some gloves, which are on the counter over there. Try to hurry. We still need to get you fitted for a suit.”

  “I really have to wear one of those?”

  “Would you rather be the only student not wearing one and stick out more than you already do?”

  “Well, no….”

  She gives me a knowing look. “Then you should go get dressed so we can get you fitted. Trust me.”

  I end up picking out a powder blue windbreaker set and a black pair of polyester running gloves. Plus a good sports bra. Running without one is almost torture. Laila nods in approval when I come out of the fitting room.